All The Same
by mirla202
Summary: How does a young teenage girl cope, when she witnesses her brother's tragic death?


**All The Same**

I was hysterical when they brought back his body. They claimed that my sobbing was continuous, not just any sobs, but that my screams were ricocheting off the walls, while shudders shook through my thin frame. To prove it, they even showed me the nail marks I left on the makeshift counter top. Denying the accusations, I shouted at them and refused to see the light in their words. No one should point their fingers at me, and under normal circumstances, they should have killed me. But no, they ended up locking me in the trunk and made off for the nearest police station, where they left me on the doorstep like a neglected child. All the calls have been made and every precaution taken. The police put me in their waiting room and decided to give me some resting time as I cried.

Even the law didn't know what to do with me. About an hour went by, and I vaguely remember being placed next to the window; sitting in solitude as I faced the angry, sullen landscape outside. When they felt they couldn't bear the sight of my mourning and the tension around me, they decided on a relocation. Once again, the man with the ship tattoo on his left arm held me up by my feeble arms and placed me in a dim, musty hallway. The plastic soles of my shoes gripped the concrete floor as I walked down the hallway towards the interrogation room. There was only a single crooked chair in the corner and a long, chrome table bolted to the ground. Reluctantly, I sat down in the aluminum chair. The man smiled as I did so, probably taking in the strange comfort of seeing me rest after the day's events.

"I'll come back with your coffee, Miss... you drink it with sugar, no?"

Startled by his courtesy and with the simple phrase dangling in the frozen air, I almost smiled back, but instead, I stared glassily at my feet as he waited for a response. When he realized that waiting was pointless, he gave me a rigid salute against his forehead and abruptly left.

The room was finally silent. It was just me with my morbid thoughts - the darkness threatening to suffocate and pick me apart piece by piece as I lost track of time. Even the small linear joints in the table were starting to irritate me, and I felt like screaming and screaming until my voice grew hoarse and the fallen walls pinned me under the rubble. Slowly, I faded back into consciousness. I figured I must have fallen asleep, as it was clearly daytime. Beams of light were already coming in through the filters in the window. Minuscule particles of dust were beginning to gather in the coffee mug next to me. I dared not to move from my position, refraining my neck from tilting to a different angle, and letting my body numb from the exhaustion. Sensing the door open, a tension filled the pit of my stomach and I let out a small whimper in fear that the altercations would return, and that whoever finished off my brother was returning for me. When I saw a female officer walk in, I tugged my lips into a rigid smile and nodded with the most optimism I could offer. I told her all the details, while watching her tap her pen against her notebook.

The interrogation was decent and fairly short. There were only several questions asked, and none were left unanswered. The story was laid out for dissection, in all its bleeding glory. My brother was dead, killed in a freak accident with a motor gang. That was my version of the story that I desperately clung to, but of course my guilt stemmed from the fact that I could have and should have prevented it. The officer had reread my account back to me with a few minor changes after our session. When I confessed my sadness and guilt to her, she shrugged.

"They all sound the same to me." She said, as she picked up her holster from the table and left. Her words were painfully true and struck a chord deep within me. Witnesses to most tragedies will attest to saying those exact same words, but it's not an option to view violence, it's the matter of the chosen course of action. I could have acted differently. I should have picked up the gun from the ground and shot a bullet clean through the man's head, but I didn't. I had shot my brother instead.


End file.
